I 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


RUGGED 

V    *      RHYMES 

WILLIAM  SIDNEY  HILLY ER 


NEW     YORK 

THOMSON    &    COMPANY 

MDCCCCV 


COPYRIGHT    1905 

BY 

WILLIAM    SIDNEY    HILLYER 
NEW    YORK 


<All  Rights   Reserved 


PRESS   OF 

THOMSON   ft   COMPANY 
NEW    YORK 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Proem    9 

When  My  Pipe  Goes  Out 1 1 

Memory  13 

The  Patter  of  Baby's  Footsteps 14 

The  Story  of  the  Willow  Plate 16 

When  the  Prompter  Rings  the  Bell 21 

Keats    23 

Baby  Steps  24 

Watching  the  Rain   26 

If  I  Had  Known 27 

A  Creed 29 

Gone 29 

The  Sources  of  Song 31 

Fame    31 

Good  Night   32 

Now  That  You  Are  Gone 32 

The  Poet's  Grave  34 

When  I  Watch  the  Children  Play 35 

When  Evening  Comes 37 

The  Poet's  Bliss  38 

Love's  Cry  of  Anguish  39 

Chatterton   40 

The  Cool  October  Days  41 

When  Daylight  Steals  Away  42 

Snowdrift    43 

At  Sunset  44 

Viola — A  Memory  45 

When  We  Were  Young 46 

Fate    47 

The  Tales  That  Father  Used  to  Tell 48 

The  Songs  That  Mother  Sang 51 

My  Lamp   53 


PAGE 

A  Scandal 54 

Bohemia    54 

The  Rock-a-Bye  Ship  57 

Spirit  of  Night  58 

The  Winter  Moon  59 

A  Review  of  Love  60 

A  Boy  Az  Iz  a  Boy 63 

The  Queen  65 

The  Embers'  Glow   66 

Contentment's  Creed  68 

My  Cigar  70 

The  Poet's  Awakening 71 

The  World's  Song 72 

Harvest  Days  72 

Shadows  on  the  Wall  74 

The  Dead  Day  76 

The  Clock 77 

The  Legend  of  the  Rose 78 

Similitude    78 

The  Answer  of  the  Soul 79 

If  We  Knew 79 

At  Twilight   80 

Hope   80 

Love   81 

Beauty    81 

Women    82 

The  Birth  of  Song    83 

On  the  Corner   83 

The  New  and  Old  85 

Better  86 

Gone  Before   87 

If  You  Were  Near 88 

Envy    89 

When  Baby  Sleeps 90 

As  Twilight  Falls 91 


TO  MY  WIFE. 

For  all  your  love,  for  all  your  care, 
For  all  you've  borne,  for  all  you  bear, 
For  what  you've  been,  for  what  you  are, 
My  heart's  great  ease,  my  guiding  star, 
I  wreathe  this  garland  of  my  lays, 
And  lay  it  at  your  feet  in  praise ; 
For  what  you've  been  to  me  alway, 
This  tribute  of  my  love  I  pay. 

For  all  I've  lacked  I  here  atone, 
And  dedicate  to  you,  your  own. 
You  were  the  inspiration,  dear, 
Of  all  the  thought  recorded  here. 
The  source  and  spring  of  all  my  rhymes, 
The  critic,  too,  perchance,  at  times; 
So  as  your  tribute  and  your  due, 
I  dedicate  them,  'love,  to  you. 


PROEM 

Into  the  world  I  send  these  rugged  rhymes, 

As  on  an  errand  we  send  forth  a  child; 

Unpolished  they,  and  still  not  rude,  but  mild 
With   human   sympathy,   childlike,   at  times. 
No  clarion  note  sounds  here.    No  silver  chimes 

Of  splendid  poesy.    No  accents  wild 

Of  a  soul  to  grief  still  unreconciled. 
Nor  here  the  hypocritic  art  of  mimes. 
But  as  the  tender  child  goes  on  its  way 

And  simply  does  the  task  it  was  to  do, 
So  wander  forth  these  simple  rhymes  to-day, 

To  reach  some  kindred  hearts  and  find  them 

true: 
They  sing  their  song  to  souls  that  hope  and  pray, 

And  twine  the  heartsease  always  with  the  rue. 

Not  nurtured  they  within  that  school  of  thought 
That  sweet  delicacy  of  phrase  doth  teach, 
Or  banal  platitudes  with  culture  preach  ; 
But  rather  with  that  rougher  knowledge  bought 
From  sad  experience,  or  sadly  wrought 

From  hearts  that  stood  within  grim  sorrow's 

breach , 

Do  they  with  all  their  simpleness  outreach 
9 


Their  heartful  hand,  hopeful  to  be  caught 

Within  the  hands  of  hearts  that  throbbing, 
beat 

In  unison  with  human  woe  and  weal; 
And  if  it  be  that  e'er  their  passion's  heat 

Shall  cause  one  kindred  soul  to  glow  or  feel, 
Then  shall  they  know  they  suffer  no  defeat, 

E'en  though  they're  hurt  by  critics  cruel  steel. 


10 


WHEN  MY  PIPE  GOES  OUT. 

When  the  murk  of  twilight  settles  down  and 

covers  roof  and  spire, 

I  love  to  sit  and  smoke,  beside  a  cheerful  crack 
ling  fire; 
And  as  I  puff  the  vapor  from  my  humble  pipe 

of  clay, 
My  cares   go   with   the   clouds   of   smoke   and 

serenely  pass  away; 
The  years  give  back  their  faces,  and  old  friends 

pass  into  view, 
While  memory  recalls  once  more  scenes  which 

my  childhood  knew; 
Fancy  waves  her  magic  wand  and  my  youth's 

bright  dreams  arise, 
Young  love's  romance  I  read  again — a  moistness 

fills  my  eyes — 
For  there  must  come  a  thought,  perchance,  of 

days  of  purest  bliss, 
When  all  the  rapture  of  the  world  was  centered 

in  a  kiss. 
The  hopes  of  other  times  return,  and  memories 

throng  about, 
But  they  vanish  like  the  clouds  of  smoke,  when 

my  pipe  goes  out. 

ii 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

The  hazy  vapor  rises  dimly  seen  amid  the  gloom, 
And   in    rings   of   soothing   fragrance   it   floats 

throughout  the  room ; 
The  problems  of  the  future,  and  in  fact,  each 

present  need, 
Are   lulled   into    forgetfulness   by   this   narcotic 

weed ; 
tt  stills  the  sense  of  carking  care,  and  dulls  the 

pangs  of  grief, 
While  to  the  heart  bowed  down  in  woe  it  brings 

a  short  relief; 
It  wafts  me  on  to  Lethe  where  the  silent  waters 

flow, 
And  fancy  rests  in  dreamy  meads  where  poppies 

ever  grow. 
The  world  takes  on  a  rosy  hue,  its  petty  troubles 

flee, 
A  happy  flood  of  sweet  content  conies  stealing 

over  me; 
While  I  smoke  I  lose  all  thought  of  the  world's 

turmoil  and  rout, 
But   I   awaken   to   its   sadness — when   my   pipe 

goes  out. 


Oft,  anon,  with  weirdly  power  this  magic  pipe 

of  mine, 
Brings    iridescent    dreams   to    me,    and    fancies 

most  divine. 


12 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

Then  my  soul  beats  'gainst  its  earthly  bars  and 

fondly  longs  to  fly 
To  the  sunshine  land  of  golden  dreams  where 

love  can  never  die; 
Where  sorrow  never  has  been  known,  nor  dark 

despairing  sin, 
Where  hate  and  wrong  and  envy's   sneer  can 

never  enter  in, 
Where  merit  does  not  fade  and  die  nor  droop 

down  sickly  pale, 

Ere  recognition's  loud  acclaim  to  the  world  im 
parts  its  tale; 
Where  love  has  never  been  betrayed,  and  where 

the  meed  of  fame 
Is  not  bestowed  unworthily  on  the  glitter  of  a 

name; 
Where  faith  and  hope  are  never  lost  within  the 

mist  of  doubt — 
But  my  castellated  fancies  fall — when  my  pipe 

goes  out. 


MEMORY. 

The  sad  remembrance  of  a  hope  long  lost, 

Will  haunt  the  soul  when  grief  itself  is  dead ; 
And  memory  still  counts  the  bitter  cost 

Of  wrecked  ideals,  though  sorrow  long  has 
fled. 

13 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

THE  PATTER   OF  BABY'S  FOOTSTEPS. 

I  love  to  hear  the  melody  that's  in  the  song  of 

birds, 
I  love  to  hear  the  music  of  the  poet's  tender 

words, 
I  love  to  hear  the  break  and  roar  of  waves  upon 

the  strand, 
And  I  love  to  hear  the  music  played  by  orchestra 

and  band; 
All  these  do  I  delight  in,  but  there's  something 

I  love  more, 
Tis  the  patter  of  baby's  footsteps  coming  o'er 

the  floor. 

A  sweet  half  hesitation  as  if  baby  were  afraid 
Of  her  own  timid  essay,  and  in  another  moment's 

laid 
Her  little  head  of  golden  curls  upon  my  parent 

knee; 
Then  all  her  little  troubles  cease  and  all  her 

sorrows  flee; 
I  love  the  strains  of  singers  but  there's  something 

I  love  more, 
'Tis  the  patter  of  baby's  footsteps  coming  o'er 

the  floor. 

Sometimes  when  my  plans  go  wrong  and  I'm 

filled  with  deepest  gloom, 
Silent  and  sad  I  sit  alone  within  my  quiet  room, 

14 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

And  meditate  on  troubles,  ills,  and  my  great  load 

of  care, 
And  then  I  feel  the  weight  of  woe  and  darkness 

of  despair; 
But  there's  a  sound  that  cheers  me  up  and  makes 

me  smile  once  more, 
"Pis  the  patter  of  baby's  footsteps  coming  o'er 

the  floor. 

It  follows  me  when  I  go  forth  and  meets  me  on 

return ; 
And  for  the  music,  all  day  long,  my  heart  doth 

ever  yearn : 
I  crave  not  many  favors,  but  for  this  I  often 

pray, 
May  that  pattering  follow  me  for  many  a  long 

day; 
Long  may  I  be  sweetly  thrilled  to  my  bosom's 

very  core, 
By  the  patter  of  baby's  footsteps  coming  o'er 

the  floor. 

But    those    footsteps    will    grow    apace    into    a 

woman's  stride, 
And    baby's    form — a    woman's    grown — be    by 

another's  side; 
Then  little  forms  will  come,  I  hope,  and  cluster 

'round  her  knee, 
And  look  up  smilingly  at  her,  as  she  now  does 

at  me, 

15 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

And  her  dear  heart  be  filled  with  bliss  as  mine 

was  filled  before — 
By  the  patter  of  baby's  footsteps  coming  o'er 

the  floor. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  "WILLOW  PLATE." 

Have  you  heard  the  story  of  old  Lu  Ling 
And  his  beautiful  daughter,  sweet  Lu  Sing, 
Of  her  lover  Wang  and  of  old  Wung  Wee, 
The  tale  that  on  the  Willow  Plate  you  see? 
Well,  attention  give  to  the  poet's  rhyme, 
And  list  to  the  legend  of  olden  time; 
A  story  of  love  from  old  China  far, 
When  loving  tryst  'neath  moon  and  star 
Was  held,  in  spite  of  old  Lu  Ling, 
By  handsome  Wang  and  the  fair  Lu  Sing. 

A  wealthy  banker  was  great  Lu  Ling, 
Adored  his  gold  and  his  child  Lu  Sing; 
He  lived  in  state  near  the  river's  bank, 
Where  the  willow  grew  and  its  deep  roots  sank 
To  the  river's  marge  where  the  waters  flowed, 
And  the  silent  tide  in  the  sunlight  glowed : 
By  a  rustic  bridge  the  stream  was  spanned, 
Which  joined  an  isle  to  its  mother  land. 
On  this  island  fair,  in  idyllic  life, 
Lived  Lu  Ling's  gardener  and  his  wife; 
16 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

True  friends  were  they  of  the  young  Lu  Sing 

And  ever  sought  to  quietly  bring 

Together, — so  doth  the  legend  state — 

The  Chinese  maid  and  her  true  soul-mate. 

For  Lu  Sing  loved,  and  she  ever  sang 

Of  her  father's  clerk,  the  handsome  Wang; 

And  Wang  loved  her — but  ah!  poor  was  he, — 

And  a  rich  man's  daughter,  that  was  she : 

No  hope  there  seemed  of  wedded  bliss; 

But  fate  denied  neither  smile  nor  kiss; 

And  in  secret  often  these  two  met, 

And  hoped  that  fate  would  favor  yet. 

One  night,  to  help  him  sup  his  tea, 

Lu  Ling  brought  the  wealthy,  high  Wung  Wee : 

Then  Wung  Wee  saw  the  maiden  fair, 

And  asked  her  father  then  and  there 

For  Lu   Sing's  hand — Wung  Wee  had  gold — 

And  she'd  lived  well — but  he  was  old 

And  ugly — not  so  was  Wang — and  she, 

Woman-like,  equivocated ; — Wee 

Might  wait  a  month,  for  brides  must  dress 

In  emblematic  lovliness, — 

And  gowns  took  time  to  make;  and  so 

Wung  Wee,  deluded,  home  did  go. 

The  time  drew  on,  the  eve  at  hand, 
When  Lu  Sing  with  Wung  Wee  would  stand 
17 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

At  the  altar — if  so  they  wed — and  be 
For  e'er  the  wife  of  old  Wung  Wee. 
But  e'en  that  day  Lu  Sing  had  sent 
To  Wang  a  message — and  he,  intent 
On  its  intelligence,  had  come 
To  the  very  door  of  Lu  Sing's  home. 
The  die  was  cast  for  the  lovers  two, 
And  with  deep  pledged  vows  of  love  so  true 
They   fled — across   the   bridge   where   the   gar 
dener's  cot 

Stood  in  its  deep  embowered  spot; 
Then  in  the  rooms  of  the  gardener's  wife 
They  staid  some  hours — till  noise  and  strife 
Told  of  pursuit;  then  in  a  boat 
For  an  island  far  they  set  afloat. 

Lu  Ling  had  closed  no  eye  in  sleep, 
And  in  his  restlessness  did  creep 
With  slow-paced  steps  the  garden  path, 
Unmindful  of  his  coming  wrath: 
As  he  reached  the  bridge  the  wind 
Sprang  up — the  willow   swayed — and  blind 
Did  he  become,  for  an  insect  nigh, 
Was  straightway  blown  into  his  eye. 
Then  home  he  stumbled  and  in  agony 
For  his  daughter  called — for  she 
Could  ease  the  pain:     No  answer  came: 
Then  rage  shook  all  his  feeble  frame; 
To  her  room  he  went — she  was  not  there! 
In  wrath  and  spleen  he  tore  his  hair, 
18 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

And  called  his  men.     No  longer  blind 

He  headed  them — his  child  to  find. 

They  crossed  the  bridge  to  the  gardener's  house, 

But  the  worthy  gardener  and  his  spouse 

Affected  not  to  hear  each  shout, 

But  seeming  slept,  till  the  sun  peeped  out: 

Then,  knowing  the  friends  of  their  own  heart 

Had  now  some  several  hours  start, 

They  let  the  angered  father  in.     He 

But  cursed  and  stormed  the  more  to  see 

The  pair  had  flown.    Then  in  pursuit 

He  started.     With  burning  rage  now  mute 

He  sailed  the  river  gleaming  wide, 

With  all  the  speed  of  wind  and  tide, 

Until  the  pair  he  had  pursued 

At  length  in  speechless  rage  he  viewed. 

The  lovers  twain  some  hours  before, 
Had  reached  the  island's  welcome  shore; 
Some  hours  spent  in  love's  sweet  talk,      , 
And  then  through  woodland  paths  a  walk; 
And  now  with  lips  pressed  unto  lips, 
Each  unheeded  minute  trips. 
No  heed  have  they  as  time  passes  by 
Of  dread  pursuit — until  a  cry 
Rings  on  the  air:  then  from  their  dreams 
They  awake  to  stern  reality:  it  seems 
A  toss  from  heaven  to  hell — for  there, 
To  their  souls'  most  utter  deep  despair, 
19 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

The  pursuers  come  with  vengeance  dire; 

They  cannot  meet  that  father's  ire: 

What  can  be  done?    There's  no  escape — 

No  hope  at  all  in  any  shape; 

But  they  can  die — ah!  that  can  they — 

Wang  but  whispers,  she  doth  obey. 

From  his  breast  Wang  draws  a  vial  small, 

One  draught  he  takes — and  that  is  all : 

One  look  he  gives  to  fair  Lu  Sing, 

She  to  his  body  there  doth  cling: 

She  takes  a  draught  of  the  poison  deep — 

On  Wang's  breast  falls; — in  death  they  sleep. 

With  arms  entwined  on  the  sandy  beach, 
Just  out  of  the  water's  treacherous  reach, 
Side  by  side  on  the  yielding  sands, 
The  father  finds  them  when  he  lands: 
But  their  spirits  in  the  form  of  doves, 
Which  symbolizes  all  their  love's 
Great  purity,  go  soaring  high 
E'en  to  the  vault  of  the  sunlit  sky. 
With  rioting  soul  the  father  then, 
And  all  that  turbulent  tribe  of  men, 
Turned  back  in  madness.     At  last 
He  reached  his  home,  and  passed 
The  portals  of  the  gardener's  cot, 
Slew  man  and  wife  upon  the  spot, 
Nor  felt  remorse. — Of  his  dark  end 
The  legend  saith  not.     But  the  bend 
20 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

Of  the  willows  the  dull  earth  sweeping, 

Give  the  name  to  them  of  the  willows  weeping: 

They  weep  their  tears  in  the  silent  air 

At  the  sad'ning  fate  of  the  Chinese  pair; 

And  tell  to  the  winds  as  their  branches  swing, 

The  tale  of  Wang  and  the  fair  Lu  Sing. 

The  legend  doth  this  story  state, 

And  'twas  pictured  on  the  willow  plate 

Long  years  ago  by  Chinese  hands; 

And  now  is  copied  in  other  lands 

To  tell  the  world  of  old  Lu  Ling, 

Of  handsome  Wang,  and  sweet  Lu  Sing. 


WHEN  THE  PROMPTER  RINGS  THE 
BELL. 

Before  the  varied  play  begins, 

Riot  reigns  behind  the  scenes; 
The  shifters  work  like  beavers  there 

Setting  castles  and  ravines: 
Busy  tumult's  on  the  stage 

Confusion  in  the  wings — 
But  there's  a  mighty  talisman 

That  changes  all  these  things; 
A  transformation  comes  around 

Where  all  had  rushed  pell-mell 
And  everything  stands  in  its  place, 

When  the  prompter  rings  the  bell. 

21 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

'Tis  the  magic  sound  which  tells  to  all 

That  the  curtain  now  will  rise, 
To  let  the  pictured  tale  show  men 

How  all  vice  with  virtue  vies; 
The  soubrette  standing  in  the  wings 

Trills  a  line  or  two  of  song, 
While  by  her  side  the  leading  man 

Stands  a  type  of  manhood  strong. 
There's  the  debutante  who  for  the  stage 

Left  her  home  and  friends  as  well — 
How  anxiously  her  sad  heart  beats, 

When  the  prompter  rings  the  bell. 

There's  the  comedian  who  plays 

Though  his  heart  is  with  his  child, 
Whom  he  has  left  at  home  to-night 

Lying  in  a  fever  wild; 
As  he  stands  behind  the  curtain 

A  message  is  handed  him; 
It  reads,  "Come  home — the  baby's  dead"— 

Then  the  scenes  to  him  grow  dim ; 
A  bitter  sadness  fills  his  heart, 

Which  he  tries  in  vain  to  quell, 
A  moaning  cry  bursts  from  his  lips, 

As  the  prompter  rings  the  bell. 

The  audience  sitting  out  in  front 
Know  but  little  of  the  strife, 

The  heartaches  and  the  bitterness 
Surging  through  this  mimic  life. 

22 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

They  do  not  know  the  ideals  lost 

The  promises  unfulfilled, 
Nor  how  ambition  in  its  pride 

Is  by  disappointment  killed. 
For  glorious  dreams  are  broken 

By  fate's  resounding  knell, 
And  many  a  fond  hope  vanishes 

When  the  prompter  rings  the  bell. 

It  behooves  us  to  remember 

That  this  life  is  but  a  stage, 
And  we  must  play  the  parts  assigned 

From  the  prince  down  to  the  page  ; 
The  "super"  cannot  play  the  king 

On  intrigue  or  power  bent, 
There  must  be  some  act  minor  roles, 

So  we  all  should  be  content; 
For  on  the  future  life's  great  stage 

Star  parts  we'll  all  play  well, 
So  let  us  all  be  ready 

When  the  Prompter  rings  the  bell. 


KEATS. 

A  tender  carol  in  a  rustic  dale, 

A  gush  of  music  —  a  glimpse  of  green  re 

treats, 

A  chaste  young  goddness  and  a  lover  pale, 
Lapped  in  Arcadian  bliss  —  this  is  Keats. 
23 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

BABY  STEPS. 

Carefully  we  stand  the  baby  on  her  tiny  timid 

feet, 
And  to  urge  her  footsteps  onward  we  all  coax 

and  do  entreat; 
Still  she  stands  in  hesitation  though  assured  by 

word  and  smile, 
And  no  prize  of  sweet  caresses  will  her  infant 

soul  beguile. 


But,  anon,  with  gathered  courage  bravely  she 
essays  to  trace 

The  short  distance  that  withholds  her  from  her 
mother's  fond  embrace. 

As  each  little  footstep  totters  nearer,  nearer,  to 
the  goal, 

Baby's  glee  breaks  out  in  laughter,  dear  courage 
ous  little  soul. 


Thus  at  last  she  reaches  mother  and  receives  the 
meed  of  toil, 

In  the  form  of  tender  kisses — sweetness  time  can 
ne'er  despoil ; 

So,  each  day  the  task's  repeated,  till  within  the 
course  of  time, 

Baby  walks  alone,  unaided,  through  sweet  child 
hood's  days  sublime. 
24 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

As  I  watch  her,  memory  wakens — as  memory 

sometimes  will — 
Thoughts  of  silent,  crypt-like  houses  which  no 

no  children's  voices  fill. 
Desolate  and  cheerless  houses  though  embellished 

quite  complete; 
Soulless    all,    without    the   patter    of   the    little 

children's  feet. 

And  the  dwellers  in  those  houses — do  they  know 

the  joy  they  miss, 
Without  the  little  forms  to  cherish  or  tiny  lips 

to  kiss? 
Joyless,  lifeless,  is  their  living,  though  wealth's 

pleasures  give  it  ease, 
With  no  little  eyes  to  brighten,  and  no  infant 

hearts  to  please. 

And  the  ones  whose  little  darlings  greet  no  more 

their  yearning  sight, 
What  consolement  has  their  anguish,  where  the 

balm  for  all  their  blight? 
Then  mercy  have  on  them  oh,  Heaven !  as  they 

in  silent  hours  weep; 
In  the  little  mounds  they  visit,  all  their  hopes  lie 

buried  deep. 

But  the  thought  should  yet  sustain  them  that 
their  darlings  have  not  shared 

All  the  heartaches  and  the  trials  which  no  mor 
tal's  yet  been  spared ; 

25 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

And  the  little  feet  so  tender  that  in  childhood's 

ways  had  trod, 
Now  are  pattering  near  the  Glory  in  the  nursery 

of  God. 

-^> 

WATCHING  THE  RAIN. 
I  sit  with  my  boy  in  the  gloaming, 

Looking  out  through  the  blurred  window 

pane, 
Looking  out  on  the  gathering  twilight, 

And  the  mist  of  the  down-pouring  rain. 

The  gloom  of  the  twilight  has  chilled  me, 
And  the  sorrows  that  can  never  find  rest, 

Come  back  to  awaken  the  keenness, 

Of  the  pain  that  is  hid  in  my  breast. 

My  boy  in  his  innocent  sweetness 

Laughs  aloud  in  his  pure  childish  glee, 

As  the  rain-drops  fall  on  the  window — 
At  the  rain  that  brings  sadness  to  me. 

I  have  passed  through  the  valley   dividing 

The  land  of  the  real  and  ideal; 
While  the  feet  of  the  boy  sitting  by  me 

Have  the  stones  of  life's  path  yet  to  feel. 

God  spare  him  the  trials,  I  pray  me, 

That  beset  the  rough  paths  of  most  men, 

God  help  him — I  pray  as  I  kiss  him, 

God  help  him — and  I  kiss  him  again. 
26 


RUGGED   RHYMES 


A  feeling  of  impassioned  sadness 

Fills  my  soul  with  a  soft  hallowed  pain; 
I  press  my  boy  close  to  my  bosom, 

As  I  gaze  on  the  down-pouring  rain. 


IF  I  HAD  KNOWN. 

If  I  had  known 
That  to-day  you  would  be  so  still  and  pale  and 

cold, 

I  would  have  left  those  bitter  words  un 
spoken  ; 

I  would  have  kissed  you  as  I  did  in  days  of  old, 
And  not  have  left  you  stricken  and  heart 
broken, 

If  I  had  known. 


If  I  had  known — 
(Oh  God !  how  like  a  mockery  those  harsh  words 

seem — 

That  you  were  as  guiltless  as  the  babe  un 
born, 
Our  life  had  been  one  fair  and  long  unending 

dream, 

As  sweetly  rapturous  as  a  summer  morn, 
If  I  had  known. 
27 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

If  I  had  known 
Our  dream  of  love,  one  day,  would  come  to  such 

an  end, 

I  had  prayed  God,  to  ere  this  let  me  die ; 
That  your  poor  heart  would  to  misery's  depths 

descend, 

I  would  not  have  given  ear  to  that  base  lie — 
If  I  had  known. 


If  I  had  known 
That  your  dear  hand  so  often  sweetly  laid  in 

mine, 
Would  itself  put  end  to  your  yet  budding 

life, 
No  words  from  me  would  have  ever  made  you 

pine, 

No  act  of  mine,   would  have  caused   you 
bitter  strife, 

If  I  had  known. 


If  I  had  known 

That  the  end  of  all  your  passion  would  be  this, 
I  would  have  joined  you  in  that  venturous 

leap; 

With  arms  entwined  and  lips  in  one  last  raptur 
ous  kiss, 

Together  we  should  have  gone  in  final  sleep, 
If  I  had  known. 
28 


RUGGED  RHYMES 
A   CREED. 

I  fight  against  the  doctrines  of  a  creed 

That  teaches  future  woe  —  damnation  deep 
And  endless  punishment.    Eternal  sleep 

Than  this  is  better  —  better  far  indeed; 

And  yet  what  is  Oblivion  as  meed 

For  all  the  things  in  life  that  make  us  weep  — 
The  many  sorrows  that  around  us  creep  — 

The  deprivations  of  our  daily  need. 

Teach  me  a  creed  that  has  a  promise  bright, 
Without  alternative  of  lasting  hell; 

A  creed  whose  star  of  hope  is  love's  pure  light, 
Whose  hymns  are  never  drowned  by  damn 
ing  knell; 

A  creed  of  mercy,  justice,  truth  and  right, 

Where  man  loves  God  and  God  loves  man 
as  well. 


GONE. 

Sweet  flower  of  my  saddened  heart, 

Bright  bud  of  love, 
E'er  of  my  life  the  dearest  part, 

And  joy  thereof; 
The  years  are  darkened,  love,  for  me, 

Since  that  drear  day, 
When  in  the  earth  they  tenderly 

Laid  you  away. 

29 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Amid  the  day's  turmoil  and  schemes 

I  see  thee  dear, 
And,  when  the  night  brings  welcome  dreams, 

I  hold  thee  near; 
No  hour  has  passed  that  has  not  brought 

Thy  face  to  me; 
Each  heart-throb  brings  a  tender  thought, 

Sweet  one,  of  thee. 
Could  I  but  hold  thee  to  this  breast 

Just  for  a  space, 
And  bid  thee,  dearest,  there  to  rest 

In  that  loved  place, 
The  world  would  be  a  paradise, 

The  sun  would  shine, 
The  joy  of  years  within  my  eyes 

Would  show  in  thine. 
It  cannot  be:  with  ev'ry  wind 

Flowers  o'er  thee  wave; 
The  tears  that  now  my  eyes  do  blind 

Fall  on  thy  grave. 
But  still  I  know  thy  spirit's  nigh; 

I  cease  my  moan; 
I  feel,  dear  love,  that  thou  art  by, 

My  own,  my  own. 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

THE  SOURCES  OF  SONG. 

In  the  bright,  golden  splendor  of  morning; 

In  the  calm,  hazy  hush  of  the  noon; 
In  the  sunset  the  red  west  adorning; 

In  the  pale,  lustrous  rise  of  the  moon. 

In  the  fleck  of  the  foam  on  the  ocean; 

In  the  break  of  the  waves  on  the  strand  ; 
In  the  song  of  the  birds,  and  the  motion 

That  sweeps  through  the  great  forests  grand. 

In  the  heart-beats  of  man  and  of  woman; 

In  their  lives  and  their  loves  and  their  hates  ; 
In  their  joys,  griefs,  and  dreams  superhuman; 

In  their  births  and  their  deaths  and  their 
fates. 

In  the  trust  in  immortal  life's  story; 

In  the  pulse-beat  of  hope,  swift  and  strong; 
In  the  faith  of  the  spirit's  pure  glory,  — 

Are  the  inspiring  sources  of  song. 


FAME. 

A  dream  within  the  mind  of  youth  ! 

A  hope  —  a  pain  ;  an  intent  that  permeates 

A  life.     A  name  within  the  mouths  of  men  ; 

A  bubble  bursting  in  the  air  of  time  — 

A  fevered  living  and  a  bitter  death, 

And  then  —  a  marble  slab. 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

GOOD  NIGHT. 

Good  night,  dear  love,  may  angels  keep 
A  tender  watch  above  thy  sleep, 
And  in  the  deep  and  silent  hours 
Waft  thee  on  to  dreamland's  bowers. 
So  sweet,  good  night. 

Good  night,  dear  love,  may  thoughts  of  me 
In  sleep  unfold  themselves  to  thee, 
And  thy  dear  lips  in  dreams  proclaim 
The  whispered  accents  of  my  name. 
So  sweet,  good  night. 

•<&• 

NOW  THAT  YOU  ARE  GONE. 

Now  that  you  are  gone, 
What  does  it  matter  that  the  sun  still  shines, 
That  birds  still  sing  and  Nature  seems  to 

smile  ? 

My  heart  each  hour  in  lonely  sadness  pines, 
And  dreary,  weary  is  the  world  the  while, 
Now  that  you  are  gone. 

Now  that  you  are  gone, 
What  does  it  matter  that  men  call  me  friend, 
That  hands  touch  mine  in  well  meant  sym 
pathy  ? 

They  lack  the  thrill  that  your  sweet  clasp  did  send 

Into  the  soul  which  holds  your  memory, 

Now  that  you  are  gone. 

32 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Now  that  you  are  gone, 
What  does  it  matter  that  the  meed  of  fame 

Is  mine  at  last,   for  work  acclaimed  well 

done? 

You  are  not  here  to  list  them  speak  my  name — 
I  hold  it  but  an  empty  guerdon  won, 
Now  that  you  are  gone. 

Now  that  you  are  gone, 
What    does    it    matter    that    some    wealth    I've 

gained  ? 

I  wished  it  once  to  ease  your  brow  of  care ; 
Why  comes  it  now  to  mock  the  heart  so  pained 
Already  with  the  darkness  of  despair, 
Now  that  you  are  gone? 

Now  that  you  are  gone, 
What  does  it  matter  should  I  cease  to  live; 
The  world  is  barren  of  all  joy  and  hope. 
I  have  no  heart  its  tasks  to  take  and  give, 
No  courage  with  its  pettiness  to  cope, 
Now  that  you  are  gone. 

Now  that  you  are  gone, 
My  life  is  dark,  but,  lo!  a  ray  of  light 

Gleams  on  my  soul  and  lightens  up  the  way 
I  should  traverse.     It  is  a  beacon  bright 

That  turns  grief's  night  to  cheerful  hope's 
bright  day, 

E'en  though  you  are  gone. 
33 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Now  that  you  are  gone, 
I  take  the  task  you  laid  so  gently  down, 
And  if  I  follow  in  your  footsteps  true 
I  yet  may  win  the  future's  golden  crown  — 
The  right  to  be  forever,  love,  with  you, 
Where  you  are  gone. 


THE  POET'S  GRAVE. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  pine 

Now  low  he  lies, 
While  o'er  him  play  the  sunbeams  fine, 

From  smiling  skies; 
No  sculptured  stone  to  tell  his  worth 

Is  here  upraised, 
Nor  'mong  the  dwellers  on  the  earth 

Is  he  much  praised; 
He  struggled  for  the  truth  and  right 

In  humble  way; 
He  wrote  his  songs  far  in  the  night, 

And  toiled  by  day. 
He  sang  a  few  sweet,  simple  lays 

Out  of  his  heart, 
Too  fine  to  meet  much  human  praise,  — 

Pure  gems  of  art. 
His  life  was  sad,  but,  sadder  yet, 

We  won  no  fame  ; 

He  died  without  the  world's  regret, 
Without  a  name. 
34 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Unknown  he  lived,  unknown  he  died; 

Yet  such  as  he, 
The  heroes  who  have  fate  defied, 

Shall  ever  be 
Rewarded  with  the  meed  of  praise 

When  time  doth  cease, 
And  in  the  light  of  future  days 

Obtain  their  peace. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  pine 

Now  low  he  lies, 
While  o'er  him  play  the  sunbeams  fine, 

From  smiling  skies; 
And  as  we  pass  the  sacred  spot, 

We  gently  tread, 
For  here  lies  one  the  world's  forgot, 

A  genius  dead. 
<^ 

W 'HEN  I  WATCH  THE  CHILDREN  PLAY. 

When  the  single  star  of  ev'ning  shines  in  the 
dusky  sky, 

And  the  twilight's  tender  voices  in  softened  mur 
murs  die, 

When  in  the  west  there  faintly  gleams  a  narrow 
streak  of  red, 

And  to  their  homes  within  the  woods  the  robins 
all  have  fled, 

Then,  though  my  busy  fancy  through  the  scenes 
of  life  may  roam, 

A  subtle  influence  recalls  my  straying  thoughts 
to  home ; 

35 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

And  as  I  sit  in  silence  while  the  daylight  dies 

away, 
I  lose  all  sense  of  trouble  when  I  watch  the 

children  play. 

When  o'er  the  earth  the  dreamy  shade  of  peace 
ful  ev'ning  falls, 
And  to  her  mate  within  the  trees  the  bluebird 

sweetly  calls, 
'Tis  a  signal  for  the  children  then  to  gather  on 

the  green, 
Where  joyous   sport  and  merry  games  lend  a 

charm  unto  the  scene; 
"Puss  in  the  corner,"  "blind  man's  buff,"  they 

play  with  joy  intense, 
While  in  "hide  and  seek"   they  dodge   behind 

the  worn  out  garden  fence; 
Though  at  bedtime  mother  stops  them,  I  fain 

would  have  them  stay, 
For  home  seems  doubly  dear  to  me  when  I  watch 

the  children  play. 

This  home  is  but  a  humble  spot,  yet  love  reigns 
there  supreme; 

Its  lowliness  is  lighted  by  contentment's  cheerful 
gleam ; 

The  children's  merry  voices  fill  its  rooms  with 
music  sweet, 

And  my  happiness  is  tuned  to  the  time  of  romp 
ing  feet. 

36 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

The  gorgeousness  of  riches  many  sordid  men 

may  crave, 
And  some  poor  fools  may  live  content  in  being 

fashion's  slave; 
Instead  of  these  give  me  the  peace  of  love's  undy 

ing  ray, 
That  in  my  heart  I  always  feel  when  I  watch 

the  children  play. 


WHEN  EVENING  COMES. 

Behind  the  hills  the  red  sun  sets; 
Like  lengthened  blood  stained  parapets 
Rose  tinted  clouds  lie  'cross  the  west; 
Fair  Nature  sinks  to  quiet  rest, 
When  evening  comes. 

A  rustling  fills  the  green  hill  side, 
As  through  the  grasses  zephyrs  glide; 
The  sunlight  slowly  fades  away, 
And  peaceful  wanes  the  dying  day, 
When  evening  comes. 

The  brilliance  of  the  evening  star 
Shines  in  the  western  steep  afar. 
Dim  twilight's  dusky  softness  fills 
The  valleys  and  surmounts  the  hills, 
When  evening  comes. 

37 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

The  dancing  waters  darkly  show 
A  deeper  undulating  glow, 
And  o'er  the  sombre  turning  tide 
The  fisher's  craft  is  swiftly  plied, 
When  evening  comes. 

Adown  the  road  the  tired  teams 
Return  amid  the  fading  gleams; 
The  birds'  last  song  is  sweetly  trilled, 
The  heart  of  man  with  peace  is  filled, 
When  evening  comes. 

Life's  many  cares  and  woes  now  seem 
To  pass  away  as  in  a  dream; 
A  hallowed  hush  falls  on  the  soul, 
And  o'er  the  heart  love  holds  control, 
When  evening  comes. 

Ah,  would  that  love  would  ever  reign; 
And  hearts  find  sweet  surcease  of  pain ; 
Ah,  would  that  we  could  always  feel 
The  tender  thrills  that  o'er  us  steal, 
When  evening  comes. 

-^> 

THE  POET'S  BLISS. 

The  silent  hours  the  poet  spends  with  thought, 
Hold  truer  bliss  than  aught  the  world  con 
tains — 
More  happiness  than  Crcesus  ever  bought 

With  all  the  fullness  of  his  gold  and  gains ; 
For  then,  within  the  poet's  heart  there  springs 
Fair  love  and  truth  of  which  he  sweetly  sings. 
38 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

LOVE'S  CRY  OF  ANGUISH. 
The  sunlit  waves  came  softly  up  the  strand; 

The  softened  murmur  of  that  golden  tide 
Broke  gently  at  our  feet  as  hand  in  hand 

We  sat  so  silently,  until  you  sighed 
In  sweet  excess  of  happiness  and  I 

Breathed  words  of  love  you  said  you'd  ne'er 

forget; 
With  arms  entwined  beneath  that  summer  sky 

In  love's  first  kiss  our  lips  together  met. 

The  winter  winds  that  day  were  blowing  wild 

As  sad  I  knelt  and  saw  your  soul  depart; 
And  while  you  fell  asleep,  oh,  love,  you  smiled, 

As  if  you  sought  to  ease  my  breaking  heart. 
The  old-time  look  of  love  came  in  your  face 

Ere  on  your  brow  the  seal  of  death  was  set ; 
Our  arms  entwined  in  one  farewell  embrace, 

In  love's  last  kiss  our  lips  together  met. 

To  mem'ry  now  there  is  no  other  time 

But  those  two  days  when  joy  was  born  and 

died; 
A  golden  day  in  love's  own  summer  time, 

A  bleak  gray  day  when  winds  and  sorrow 

sighed. 
'Neath  sunlit  skies  that  tender  love  was  born — 

The  skies  were  leaden  cold  that  other  day, 
When  bright-winged  angels   from  the  halls  of 

morn, 

Took  you  to  God  and  left  me  here  to  stay. 
39 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Through  all  the  ways  of  life  I  walk  alone 

And  tread  the  paths  that  you  and  I  once 

trod— 
The  heart  within  me  is  as  cold  as  stone, 

And  not  less  dead  than  thine  beneath  the 

sod. 
From  out  the  darkness  where  I  sadly  roam, 

I  cry  aloud  in  anguish,  love,  to  thee, 
Oh,  can  you  hear  within  your  spirit  home  — 
"Come  back,  oh  love,  oh  love,  come  back 
to  me." 


CHATTERTON. 

As  when  from  out  a  mass  of  clouds  there  darts 

The  mist-dispelling,  earth-refreshing  sun, 

So  out  from  dark  oblivion's  cloud  comes  one 
Who  gave  to  song  the  fullness  of  his  heart's 
Young  ecstasy;  who  of  all  human  parts 

The  saddest  played  —  the  great  souled  Chat- 
terton 

Art's  fond  scion  and  Nature's  noble  son. 
The  feeble  shade  of  Rowley  now  departs; 
Alone  stands  Chatterton  with  boyish  frown, 

And  deep  despair  within  his  saddened  eye; 
A  yearning  look  cast  toward  that  golden  crown 

Which  statesmen  struggle  for  and  poet's  vie  ; 
The  soaring  soul  that  Walpole  could  not  down, 

Shall  live  for  aye  —  for  genius  cannot  die. 
40 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

THE  COOL  OCTOBER  DAYS. 

The  quail  is  piping  shrilly  in  the  marsh  reeds 
straight  and  tall — 

Echo  from  the  fields  afar  sends  back  an  answer 
ing  call; 

The  skies  o'erhead  are  clearer  with  a  purer, 
brighter  blue, 

And  Nature  dons  her  garment  fair  of  changing 
russet  hue; 

The  distant  hills  stand  clearly  out  in  perspective 
tall  and  fair, 

And  sounds  are  borne  distincter  on  the  keener 
Autumn  air. 

A  color  glory  fills  the  fields  from  brown  to 
golden  blaze, 

And  life  takes  on  a  purpose,  in  the  cool  Octo 
ber  days. 

The  blood  comes  bounding  stronger  through  the 

veins  of  lusty  youth, 
And  souls  are  filled  with  tenser  dreams  of  love 

and  faith  and  truth; 
Hope  surmounts  the  obstacles  that  beset  the  path 

of  life, 
And  courage  urges  fainting  hearts  to  buckle  for 

the  strife. 
The  breezes  cool  are  bracing  and  they  fan  the 

whitened  cheek, 
Of  him  who  early  in  the  fight  has  grown  so  wan 

and  weak; 

41 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

To  heaven  thanks  are  daily  poured  as  raptur 
ously  we  gaze 

On  Nature's  boundless  beauty,  in  the  cool  Octo 
ber  days. 

-^> 
WHEN  DAYLIGHT  STEALS  AWAY. 

I  love  to  stand  beside  the  restless  sea, 

When   westward   fades   the  crimson   dying 

day, 

And  watch  its  beauty  and  its  glory  flee, 
At  that  still  hour  when  daylight  steals 

away; 

Light  flies  the  wind  on  rustling  pinions  gay, 
Crag  piled  on  crag  of  snow-pure  clouds  I  scan, 
With  ruddy  tints  and  hues  cerulean, 

Those  Titan  forms  that  through  the  ether 
stray. 

The  chastened  lustre  of  each  sunset  ray, 

Striving    to    paint    some    glory    while    'tis 

fleeing, 

With  beauty's  spirit  raptures  all  my  being 
At  that  soft  hour  when  daylight  steals  away. 
When    evening    sheds    around    her    silken 

calm — 
And  falling  shadows  darken  all  the  gray, 

Then   silence   comes — the   wounded   spirit's 

balm — 

'Tis  beautiful  when  daylight  steals  away. 
42 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Soon  comes  the  moon  high  sailing  o'er  the  trees, 

Shedding  on  all  her  pale  and  ghostly  light. 
Sweet  benedictions  float  upon  the  breeze, 

No  heart  now  feels  the  bitterness  of  blight. 
When  eve,  the  dusky  follower  of  day, 

Draws  back  the  curtain  that  conceals  the 
stars, 

A  peace  prevails  that  no  contention  mars, 
The  world  grows  still  when  daylight  steals  away. 

*Sx 

SNOWDRIFT. 

Cold  and  white  the  snowflakes  falling, 

Cover  all  the  busy  town, 
Filling  ev'ry  street  and  alley 

As  they  drift  so  softly  down. 

Pure  as  prayer  the  silent  snowflakes 
Mantle  earth  with  robe  of  white, 

Making  ev'ry  tree  a  gaunt  wraith 
To  the  children's  great  delight. 

Loud  their  laughter,   shrill  their  shouting, 

As  they  dance  about  in  glee, 
But  the  silent  snowflakes  falling, 

Bring  no  merriment  to  me. 

For  my  thought  so  sadly  busy 
Goes  beyond  the  city's  bound, 

Where  the  snow  is  slowly  sloping — 
Slowly  covering  a  mound. 
43 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

There  the  little  one  so  fondly 

Held  with  love  against  my  breast, 

Lies  beneath  the  falling  snowflakes 
In  a  long,  undreaming  rest. 

On  her  grave  the  snow  is  falling, — 
It  will  fall  throughout  the  night; 

It  will  cover  my  dear  baby 

With  a  pall  of  virgin  white. 

But  my  heart  cannot  sustain  it 

It  to  me  is  still  a  pall, 
So  the  tears  start  to  my  eyelids, 
As  the  silent  snowflakes  fall. 

*o 

AT  SUNSET. 

Across  the  beetling  cloud's  white  parapet 
The  sun-god  hangs  his  streamers  of  deep  red; 
Crimson,  as  if  the  day's  pure  heart  had  bled, 
And  let  its  ichor  run  to  where  'twas  met 
By  gray  and  blue  with  deepest  gold  inset; 
The  fiery  grandeur  of  the  day  has  fled, 
And  twilight's  restful  peace  comes  in  its  stead, 
To  ease  the  world  of  half  its  care  and  fret. 
Adown  the  western  steep  there  faintly  gleams 

The  fading  brilliance  of  departing  day; 
The  ev'ning  haze  creeps  o'er  the  restless  streams, 

And  silent  is  the  robin's  tender  lay; 
While  o'er  the  heart  come  soft  and  hallowed 

dreams, 

Like  beacons  bright  to  light  its  future  way. 
44 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

V 1 OLA— A  MEMORY. 

Viola,  you  were  rightly  named, 
A  violet  of  sweetest  grace; 
The  fairest  flower  that  ever  claimed 
In  loving  hearts  a  dwelling  place. 

You  came  to  us  in  troubled  days, 

To  cheer  us  with  your  baby  smile, 

To  comfort  us  with  winsome  ways, 
And  brighten  life  for  us  awhile. 

Love's  latest  blossom  frail  and  fair, 

You  were  the  first  to  fade  and  die; 

You  left  us  to  our  deep  despair 

With  saddened  hearts  and  tear-dimmed  eye. 

Out  on  the  sun-kissed  grassy  slope, 

We  laid  you  down  one  summer  day; 

'Twas  then  we  buried  sweetest  hope, 
In  that  dark  grave  wherein  you  lay. 

Oh !  how  we  miss  you,  little  child, 

Throughout  each  weary,  lonesome  hour; 

Your  dimpled  smile,  and  prattle  mild, 
Our  little,  tender,  blighted  flower. 

To  you,  through  all  the  coming  years, 

Our  memory  shall  ever  turn ; 
For  you  shall  ever  fall  these  tears, 

For  you  our  hearts  shall  ever  yearn. 

45 


RUGGED  RHYMES 


God  grant  us  strength  to  bear  our  pain, 
And  give  us  hope  to  light  our  way; 

God  grant  that  we  shall  see  again 

The  babe  we  lost  one  summer  day. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  YOUNG. 

On  the  shores  of  hearing  never  yet  there  broke 
The  murmuring  stream  of  such  melody, 

As  when  your  voice  within  my  soul  awoke 

The  thrilling  glow  of  love's  bright  ecstasy, 
When  we  were  young. 

In  the  garden  fair  of  those  early  years 

The  flowers  blossomed  and  the  sweet  birds 

sang, 

And  youthful  hearts  knew  neither  woe  nor  tears, 
But  all  the  hours  with  joyous  laughter  rang, 
When  we  were  young. 

The  days  all  glided  like  a  golden  stream 

Towards  the  harbor  that  has  made  us  old : 
The  time  is  past  of  young  romance's  dream — 
Ah,  love  of  mine,  the  world  was  not  so  cold, 
When  we  were  young. 
46 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

The  twilight  dim  succeeds  the  sunset  glow, 
Our  life's  gray  eve  is  nearing  to  its  end; 

But  yet  our  hearts  the  same  sweet  faith  do  know, 
As  when  to  life  love  many  charms  did  lend, 
When  we  were  young. 

We  have  not  aged  but  in  our  outer  guise, 

Our  heads  are  silvered,  but  our  hearts  are 

gold; 

We  still  view  love  with  deep  and  tender  eyes, 
As  e'er  we  did  in  those  sweet  days  of  old, 
When  we  were  young. 

So  shall  it  be  as  long  as  life  shall  last, 

For  love's  great  power  rejuvenates  us  both ; 

As  fancy  wanders  to  the  happy  past, 

We  kiss  again  as  did  we — nothing  loth, 
When  we  were  young. 

-^ 

FATE. 
Dark  and  fell  is  the  ocean's  swell, 

As  we  gaze  out  to  sea: 
A  storm-tossed  boat,  upturned,  afloat; 

A  brave  lad's  soul  is  free. 

Within  a  cot  fair  hope  is  not 

Where  hope  was  wont  to  be; 

A  mother  wild  weeps  o'er  her  child; 
Tis  dark  fate's  stern  decree. 
47 


RUGGED  RHYMES 


Again  the  sea  shines  merrily; 

The  sun  shines  just  as  fair; 
But  a  mother's  heart  feels  the  bitter  smart 

Of  heavy-eyed  despair. 


THE   TALES  THAT  FATHER   USED   TO 
TELL. 

Cooper's  Indian  tales  I've  read — Emerson  Ben 
nett's,  too; 

Sylvanus  Cobb's  great  serials  of  somewhat  lurid 
hue; 

And  I've  perused  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Kipling 
terse  and  strong, 

Thackeray,  Hope,  A.  Conan  Doyle  and  all  the 
gifted  throng. 

But  though  they're  great  and  though  their  books 
by  many  thousand  sell, 

They  never  wrote  such  stories  as  my  father  used 
to  tell. 

When    tea    was    o'er    and    lessons    learned    we 

youngsters  gathered  round 
The  hearthside  where  our  father  sat  and  never 

made  a  sound; 
But  open-mouthed  and  sparkling-eyed  drank  in 

with  eager  ears, 
Tales  that  made  our  laughter  ring  or  moved  us 

all  to  tears. 

48 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

Those  stories  would  put  us  children  into  a  magic 

spell — 
I've  ne'er  read  anything  like  the  tales  that  father 

used  to  tell. 

For  hours  we  would  breathless  sit  and  then  beg 

him  to  go  on, 
While  mother  would  expostulate,  "Why,  look  at 

the  hour,  John!" 
But   we   would   crave   another   one   and   father 

would  relate 
A   story  that  would   raise  the  hair  upon  each 

youngster's  pate. 
Those  stories  were  most  marvelous  ones.    Were 

they  real?     Well, 
I  only  know  we  prized  those  tales  that  father 

used  to  tell. 

When  many  heroes  had  been  wed  and  numerous 
villains  killed, 

And  mother  thought  we  youngsters  had  suffi 
ciently  been  thrilled, 

We  knelt  down  there  beside  her  and  with  ramb 
ling  thoughts  we  said 

The  childish  prayers  that  Heaven  heard — and 
then  went  off  to  bed. 

And  if  we  dreamed  of  wondrous  things,  why  lay 
it  to  the  spell, 

Induced  by  all  the  charming  tales  that  father 
used  to  tell. 

49 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Many  authors  of   renown  it  has  been  my  lot 

to  read; 

In  fiction  I  have  dallied  o'er  many  a  daring  deed ; 
But  neither  now  in  later  years  nor  in  my  younger 

days, 
Have  I  ever  read  a  story  that  could  win  from 

me  the  praise 
That  once  I  lavished  on  the  tales  in  which  dad 

did  excel — 
They  were  really  masterpieces  that  father  used 

to  tell. 

I've  written  stories,  too,  myself  and  tried  hard 

to  succeed, 
In   putting   forth   a   narrative  that   other   folks 

would  read; 
I  published  one,  brought  it  to  dad — was  filled 

with  deep  despair, 
When  having  read  it  he  remarked  that  it  was 

only  fair: 
Oh!  this  I  know  that  I  could  win  great  wealth 

and  fame  as  well, 
If  I  could  just  rewrite  the  tales  that  father  used 

to  tell. 


RUGGED  RHYMES 


THE  SONGS  THAT  MOTHER  SANG. 
The  mem'ry  of  those  simple  lays  my  heart  will 

ever  keep, 
The  ballads  that  my  mother  sang  as  she  rocked 

me  off  to  sleep ; 
An  echo  of  the  far  off  years  I  seem  to  hear  them 

now, 
With  the  little  break  when  she  would  stop  to  kiss 

her  baby's  brow; 
"Hazel  Dell,"  "Sweet  Nellie  Gray,"  and  "The 

Cottage  By  The  Sea," 
They  were  among  the  simple  songs  that  mother 

sang  to  me. 

"The  Suwanee  River"  sweetly  flows  along  the 

course  of  time; 
"My  Old  Kentucky  Home"  I  hear  with  simple 

air  and  rhyme; 
"Silver  Threads  Among  the  Gold,"  I  recall  it 

with  a  sigh, 
And  the  tender  lulling  cadence  of  "The  Sweet 

Bye  and  Bye;" 
I  ne'er  can  hear  those  old-time  songs  without 

they  bring  a  pang, 
For  they  are  hallowed  to  my  heart — the  songs 

that  mother  sang. 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

Perhaps  as  mother  sang  them  all  with  me  there 

in  her  fold, 
She  thought  of  her  boy's  dim  future — its  years 

so  stern  and  cold; 
Perhaps  that  was  the  reason  she  would  press  me 

to  her  breast, 
And  with  a  song  of  pathos  sweet  would  lull  me 

there  to  rest. 
Ah!    mother    would   that   I    again   a   little   lad 

could  be, 
And  listen  to  those  old-time  songs  you  sang  so 

tenderly. 

How  closely  would  I  nestle  in  your  sheltering 
embrace ; 

How  I'd  watch  your  love's  sweet  rapture  re 
flected  in  your  face; 

And  how  I'd  fondly  listen  for  the  love-note  in 
your  tone, 

That  now  I  miss  so  sadly  as  I  walk  'mong  men 
alone ; 

All  that  the  years  have  brought  me  I'd  relinquish 
without  sigh, 

Just  to  hear  your  voice  again  as  you  sang  some 
lullaby. 

Mother's  voice  has  now  been  stilled  for  many  a 

weary  year, 
But  whispering  remembrance  brings  the  tones  I 

loved  to  hear : 

52 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

Perhaps  within  her  Heaven  home  she's  singing 

yet  to  me, 
And  her  spirit  voice  is  that  which  I  have  thought 

was  memory: 
Perhaps  in  life's  dark  twilight  when  I'm  sinking 

through  the  gloam, 
My  spirit  she  may  lead  to  her  by  singing  "Home 

Sweet  Home." 


MY  LAMP. 

Tis  midnight's  calmful  hour  and  I  would  write : 
But,  Lamp,  you  burn  so  fitfully  and  low, 
I  know  your  flame  is  fast  expiring.    So 

I  must  withhold  the  thoughts  I  would  indite 

To  censure  wrong  and  vindicate  the  right. 
Now  do  I  know  it  wrong  to  undergo 
The  stress  of  dull  procrastination  slow, 

And  hold  for  eve  what  should  have  seen  day's 
light. 

How  like  unto  your  fretful  dying  spark, 

Shall  one  day  be  that  flame  that  I  call  life; 

Which  when  it's  merging  in  one  night's  dull  dark, 
Shall  mind  me — Oh !  had  charity  been  rife — 

Of  souls  I've  passed  so  naked  and  so  stark, 
Whom  timely  love  had  clothed  for  all  the 
strife. 

53 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

A  SCANDAL. 

Through  many  years  its  course  it  ran 
To  smirch  the  honor  of  a  man; 
And  in  the  night  of  death's  dark  gloom 
It  came  a-knocking  at  his  tomb. 
But  when  the  sun  of  truth  shone  out, 
It  faded  with  the  mist  of  doubt; 
Of  this  man's  honor  all  then  read, 
And  he  was  praised — but  he  was  dead. 


BOHEMIA. 
There  is  a  land  of  fancy — and  yet  this  land  is 

real — 
Where  the  lowly  born  is  equal  to  him  of 

highest  birth; 

Talent  is  the  coin  of  realm  within  this  land  ideal, 
And   what   you   have   accomplished,   is   the 
standard  of  your  worth. 

The  worshippers  of  Mammon  and  devotees  of 

rank, 

Are  ever  barred  admittance  into  this  glori 
ous  land  — 
This  land  of  right  good  fellowship  where  no  man 

ever  sank 

Through  want  of  brothers'  counsel  or  clasp 
of  friendly  hand. 
54 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

This  place  is  called  Bohemia,  its  denizens  are 

those 
Whom    mother    Nature's    gifted    with    the 

wealth  of  talents  rare; 
Each  woman  is  a  loving  queen  that  tender  fealty 

knows, 

Every  man's  king  himself  though  he  live 
on  frugal  fare. 

The  pride  of  worth  is  felt  by  all  but  not  the 

pride  of  place; 
Convention's  rules  hold  here  no  sway — un- 

felt  staid  Fashion's  pall; 
All  creeds  do  here  commingle  and  they  deem  it 

no  disgrace 

To  welcome  honest  brothers  who  may  know 
no  creed  at  all. 

He  who  has,  in  Bohemia,  will  generously  give 
To  his  lesser  favored  kindred  a  share  of  all 

he  owns; 
The  greed  of  gold  comes  not  to  blight  the  happy 

life  they  live — 

Their    fortunes    are    not    built    upon    their 
fellows'  tears  and  groans. 

An  erring  brother's  failings  are  with  charity  all 

viewed, 

The  slimy  tongue  of  slander  Bohemia  never 
heeds ; 

55 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

With  the  spirit  of  true  fellowship  ev'ry  soul's 

imbued — 

And  lust  of  gain   steels  not  the  heart   as 
needy  sorrow  pleads. 

The  days  are  fair  in  Bohemia — sunny  days  and 

long, 
Where  friendship  shines  like  brightest  sun 

on  thoughts  and  deeds  of  worth; 
The  nights  are  fair  in  Bohemia — nights  of  joy 

and  song, 

And  laughter  rings  where  Custom  cold  can 
see  no  cause  for  mirth. 

The  season  in  Bohemia  is  always  summer  time, 
They  reck  not  of  a  colder  clime  for  wintry 

winds  ne'er  blow; 
One's  days  are  passed  with  reason  and  another 

one's  with  rhyme, 

And  lips  meet  lips  and  hands  clasp  hands 
and  flowers  of  fancy  grow. 

To  graven  gods  Bohemia  bends  not  the  fawn 
ing  knee, 

No  homage  do  its  citizens  to  empty  title  pay ; 
But    talent's    pure    achievements    e'en    though 

modest  they  may  be, 

Receive  their  recognition  e'er  the  man  has 
passed  away. 

56 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Long  may  that  province  flourish   where  merit 

does  not  die 
In  the  throes  of  weary  waiting  or  despair's 

dull  dreary  pains; 
Where  voice  of  fool  is  never  heard,  nor  envy's 

sneering  cry, 

Where  women  all  are  fair  to  see  and  all 
the  men  have  brains. 


THE  ROCK-A-BYE  SHIP. 

The  Rock-a-bye  ship  sails  every  night, 
To  the  haven  the  Port  of  Dreams, 

While  at  the  masthead  shines  the  glowing  light 
Of  Love's  far-reaching  cheerful  beams. 

.The  Rock-a-bye  ship  meets  never  a  storm 
On  its  way  to  the  Port  of  Dreams; 

The  heart  of  the  captain  with  love  is  warm  — 
There  never  was  warmer,  it  seems. 

The  Rock-a-bye  ship  makes  several  trips 
To  the  fair  Port  of  Dreams  each  night; 

The  first  at  six,  when  a  fond  mother's  lips, 
Kiss  two  eyes  that  are  big  and  bright. 

The  Rock-a-bye  ship  next  sails  about  eight, 

When  a  youngster  clambers  aboard; 
Then    the    good    ship    starts    with    its    precious 

freight, 

By  the  captain  fondly  adored. 
57 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

I  own  an  interest  in  that  good  ship, 

And  I  love  to  witness  its  start; 
So  I  watch  it  make  each  separate  trip, 

Guided  on  by  a  loving  heart. 

For  the  Rock-a-bye  ship  is  mother's  arms, 
The  passengers  our  babies  dear; 

They  stop  not  to  think  of  nocturnal  harms, 
Nor  the  bogie-man  do  they  fear. 

May  time  pass  lightly  over  that  good  ship, 

And  the  years  on  it  softly  lie, 
And  kind  heaven  grant,  as  it  makes  each  trip 

May  I  always  be  watching  nigh. 

"^ 

SPIRIT  OF  NIGHT. 
Speed  swiftly  on  thy  wings  of  balm, 

Spirit  of  night! 
Bring  with  thee  quietness  to  calm 

The  world's  fierce  fight. 

Bring  with  thee  from  the  moaning  sea, 

On  breezes  strong, 
That  dithyramb  of  woe  and  glee — 

The  naiads'   song. 

Bring  with  thee  from  the  south's  green  shades 

Some  fragrance  fair, 
And  freshen  all  our  northern  glades 

With  warmer  air. 

58 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Bring  slumber  to  the  weary  hearts 

That  toil  all  day, 
Within  the  city's  restless  marts, 

For  meagre  pay. 

To  tired  souls  bring  hope  and  gain, 

And  quiet  peace; 
To  sufferers  bring,  from  all  their  pain, 

A  sweet  release. 

Bring  love  unto  the  hearts  of  men, 

And  hate  of  wrong, 
And  thy  great  joy  the  poet's  pen 

Will  praise  in  song. 

To  her  I  love  bring  heart's  repose, 

And  ecstasy, 
And  in  her  peaceful  sleep  disclose 

Sweet  dreams  of  me. 


THE  WINTER  MOON. 

Cold-pure,  with  argent  light  the  winter  moon 
Sails  o'er  the  silvered  tops  of  snow-crowned  hills, 
And  glints  the  glassy  face  of  frozen  streams; 
Her  pale  effulgence  fills  the  bare-limbed  woods, 
And  on  the  world  as  soft  and  lightly  lies 
As  a  mother's  kiss  upon  her  sleeping  babe. 
59 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

A  REVERIE  OF  LOVE. 
Can  you  forget  that  fateful  night — that  lustrous 

night  in  June? 
The  earth  lay  soft  and  silvered  with  our  thought 

all  was  atune; 
For  on  the  air  in  balmy  waves  the  scent  of  roses 

sweet, 
Came    as    the    perfumed    breath    of    love    with 

ecstasy  replete; 

And  on  the  breezes  laden  with  that  odorous  de 
light, 
Rose  the  softly  whispered  murmurs,  the  voices 

of  the  night. 
They  my  heart  stole  from  its  keeping — I  fondly 

told  to  you, 
A  story  oh,  so  olden  but  a  tale  yet  ever  new. 

The  moonlight  rested  on  you  and  your  wealth 
of  waving  hair, 

Was  a  sheen  of  silken  glory  in  the  light  re 
flected  there; 

Half  hid  by  langorous  lashes  was  the  beauty  of 
your  eyes, 

Imprisoning  suggestions  of  the  summer's  softened 
skies. 

Your  cheeks  were  tinged  with  crimson  hues  the 
rose  could  scarce  eclipse, 

And    parted    buds    of    blissfulness    seemed    the 
sweetness  of  your  lips. 
60 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Tender  raptures  were  revealed  as  your  bosom 

rose  and  fell, 
And  your  voice  came  like  the  music  of  a  liquid 

sounding  bell. 

Love  touched  the  springs  of  eloquence,  my  fervid 

speech  o'erflowed 
The  very  boundaries  of  my  soul,  a  tribute  it  had 

owed 
To  charms  like  yours  which  soon  were  clasped 

within  my  close  embrace, 
As  my  heart  bathed  in  the  glory  and  the  beauty 

of  your  face. 
My  lips  touched  yours  in  one  long  thrill,  earth 

faded  from  my  sight, 
And  you  and  I  seemed  starlings  on  the  bosom  of 

the  night. 
The  sensuous  glow  of  ecstasy  my  inmost  soul 

had  dazed — 
And  dreams  Elysian  upward  sprang  as  in  your 

eyes  I  gazed. 

And  you  so  fair,  so  radiant  pure,  to  me  you  held 

so  sweet, 
As  with  my  passioned  accents  your  heart  there 

fervent  beat; 
We  spoke  of  love — we  lived  it  there  in  one  short 

span  of  hours, 

A  life  of  immortality  'mid  fancy's  roseate  bowers ; 
61 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

And  then  into  my  heart  there  came  the  joy  which 

Keats  had  sung, 
A  vision  of  the  olden  time  when  all  the  world 

was  young; 
Ah,  sweet  we  lived  Endymion's  love  in  the  argent 

moonlight  there, 
Amid  the  night's   soft  murmurs  and  the  pure 

rose-burdened  air. 

So  may  we  live  through  all  the  years,  through 

nights  of  argent  bliss, 
So  may  we  live  through  sunny  days  made  golden 

by  a  kiss ; 
So  may  we  live  when  nights  are  dark  and  days 

devoid  of  sun, 
Until  within  the  strand  of  time  our  own  life's 

sands  have  run; 
Then  when  the  call  for  silence  comes  may  we 

together  go 
When  the  roses  give  their  fragrance  and  the 

silver  moonbeams  glow; 
And  as  the  argent  glory  bathes  all  the  world 

in  light, 
May  our  spirits  know  love's  rhapsody  as  on  that 

lustrous  night. 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

A  BOY  AZ  IZ  A  BOY. 

I  like  a  boy  az  iz  a  boy — not  one  of  them  air  kind 

So  dressy-like  an'  delliket — so  cultured  an'  re 
fined, 

With  Fauntleroy  hats  an'  suits  an'  stringy  yal- 
yer  curls, 

An'  general  get-up  like  ez  if  they  wuz  only  girls ; 

I  like  a  boy  thet's  hearty  an'  not  like  a  great  big 
toy; 

I  like  a  boy  thet's  human-like — a  boy  az  iz  a  boy. 

I  like  a  boy  az  iz  a  boy,  who  plays  leap-frog  an' 

tag, 
Whose  hank'chief  sometimes  resembles — well — 

a  discolored  rag; 
A  boy  thet  splashes  in  th'  pools  when  summer 

rains  come  down, 
A  boy  thet  likes  t'  foller  a  perseshun  'round  th' 

town. 
I  like  a  boy  az  iz  a  boy — one  who  sometimes 

glories 
In   tales    of   bloody    piruts    an'   thrillin'    Indian 

stories. 

I  like  a  boy  az  iz  a  boy — one  thet  y'  can't  mistake, 
A  boy  thet  will  occasionally  some  commandments 

break  ; 
I  like  a  boy  who's  apt  sometimes  t'  dirty  shirts 

an'  collars, 

63 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

Who's   got  an   appetite,   too,   thet's   worth   ten 

thousand  dollars. 
Tho'  sometimes  he's  a  nuisance,  he'll  finally  prove 

a  joy; 
I  like  a  boy  thet  fights,  by  gosh — a  boy  az  iz  a  boy. 

I  like  a  boy  az  iz  a  boy — a  boy  who's  not  a  fool, 
Who'd   rether  go  a-fishin'  eny  day  than  go  t' 

school. 
I  like  a  boy  thet  climbs  up  trees,  goes  gunnin' 

too,  fer  rats, 
A  boy  who  stones  all  strayin'  dogs,  and  pelts  the 

neighbor's  cats; 
Tho'  this  seems  cruel-like,  it's  only  boyish  glee, 

by  gum, 
Which  th'  sorrows  of  th'  after  years  will  knock 

t'  kingdom  come. 

I  like  a  boy  az  iz  a  boy,  whose  hands  ain't  always 

clean, 
A  boy  thet's  rough  but  generous,  a  boy  thet  isn't 

mean; 
A  boy  who's  sometimes  sassy,  but  loves  his  dad 

an'  mother, 
A  boy  who's  allus  fight  fer  his  comrads  or  his 

brother ; 
I  like  a  boy  like  this  t'  love — an'  sometimes,  too, 

t'  swat  him — 

I  like  a  boy  az  iz  a  boy,an'  thank  God,  I  hev  got  him. 
64 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

THE  QUEEN. 
There's  a  tiny  little  monarch  who  queens  it  o'er 

my  heart, 
And   from  her  throne  of  sovereignty  she  will 

ne'er  depart; 
She  rules  her  little  monarchy  with  self-assertive 

will, 
And  no  matter  what  she  dictates  we  must  obey 

her  still. 
She's  not  learned  in  the  wisdom  of  economic 

rules, 
Yet  a  knowledge  she  possesses  that's  not  imbibed 

from  schools. 

Her    subjects    love    her    tenderly — tenderly    she 

loves  them; 
Love  is  the  sceptre  that  she  wields  and  Love  her 

her  diadem. 
Her  palace  is  our  humble  house,  her  throne  a  big 

high-chair ; 

And  her  royal  occupation — to  banish  all  our  care. 
Her  crown  is  made  of  golden  curls  that  on  her 

temples  shine; 
She  sways  it  with  a  regal  grace  o'er  mother's 

heart  and  mine. 

This  queen  is  only  three  years  old  yet  wiser  far 

than  we — 
Her  royal  favors  she  bestows  on  mamma  and 

on  me. 

65 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Live  on,  live  on,  oh  mighty  queen  and  rule  this 

heart  of  mine, 
Till  on  my  head  the  argency  of  silv'ry  locks  does 

shine : 
Live  on  until  my  life  is  o'er  and  from  your  rule 

I've  passed, 
As  gracious  then  as  you  are  now  and  happy  to 

the  last. 

-Qy 

THE  EMBERS'  GLOW. 

The  winter  winds  blow  lustily,  the  air  is  bitter  cold, 
The  hoary  frost  lies  thick  and  deep  on  upland 

and  on  wold; 
The  bare-limbed  trees  shrink  from  the  touch  of 

winter's  icy  breath, 
And  the  babbling  brook's  sweet  music  is  stilled 

in  frozen  death; 
But  safely  housed  from  chill  and  blast  I  take 

my  easy  chair, 
And  place  it  by  the  hearthside  where  the  fire 

blazes  fair; 
So  little  care  I   for  the  gales  that  'round  my 

dwelling  blow, 
As  in  the  twilight  gloom  I  sit,  and  watch  the 

embers'  glow. 

The  cheerful  blaze  sends  forth  a  heat  that  per 
meates  the  room; 

The   flickering  light   half  penetrates   the    fancy 
wak'ning  gloom ; 

66 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

And  the  shadows  that  go  dancing  on  carpet  and 

on  wall, 
Seem  the  ghost  of  vanished  pleasures  that  come 

at  memory's  call. 
And  through  the  length  of  years  return  the  days 

of  hopeful  youth, 
When  life  was  all  a  golden  spell  of  love,  romance 

and  truth; 
When  the  heart  was  filled  with  summer  dreams 

that  knew  no  wintry  woe, 
And  faith  burned  bright  within  my  soul  as  now 

the  embers  glow. 

Ah!  me,  what  changes  years  bring  forth — what 

dreams  and  hopes  are  killed; 
What  hearts  wherein  warm  love  once  beamed 

seemed  fated  to  be  chilled; 
What  havoc's  wrought  all  unforeseen,  by  that 

dark  traitor  doubt, 
That  drains  the  springs  of  human  love  and  draws 

its  essence  out — 
And  leaves  the  stricken  soul  fore'er  to  wither 

and  decay, 
In  the  very  fields  where  there  once  bloomed  the 

flowers  of  love's  May. 
Although    my   heart   beneath    such    weight   has 

bended  deep  and  low, 
Hope's   reassurance   seems  to   shine   within   the 

embers'  glow. 

67 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

A  fairy  hand  appears  to  me  and  points  into  the 

blaze, 
And   brightly   there   a  vision   dawns   of   happy 

youthful  days; 
When  boyish  thought's  sweet  purity  knew  not 

the  smirch  of  sin, 
And  honor's  height — in  all  the  world — seemed 

the  only  point  to  win. 
Though    conscience    tells    of    unkept    vows — of 

duties  never  done, 
I  now  repeat  old  promises,  repeat  them  one  by 

one; 
Come  love,  and  faith,  and  all  the  dreams  the 

heart  of  youth  did  know, 
Revive  my  drooping  soul  once  more  as  I  watch 

the  embers'  glow. 


CONTENTMENT'S  CREED. 

What  does  it  matter  if  my  life  be  spent 

In  humble  sphere  devoid  of  wealth  and  rank, 

If  so  it  be  that  I  am  well  content, 

And  yet  find  heart  my  fortune  still  to  thank. 

What  does  it  matter  if  at  night  I  sleep 
Beneath  no  coverlet  of  silk  or  lace, 

As  long  as  I  my  innate  manhood  keep, 

And  sell  not  honor  for  a  bondman's  place. 
68 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

What  does  it  matter  if  at  morn  I  rise 
In  no  luxurious  apartment  grand, 

If  I  do  stem  the  tear  in  sorrow's  eyes 

And   to   my    fellow   man   give   friendship's 
hand. 

What  does  it  matter  that  if  when  I  dine 

My  small  repast  consists  of  frugal  fare — 

I  do  not  sigh  as  long  as  health  is  mine, 

And  song  has  power  to  ease  my  heart  of  care. 

What  does  it  matter  if  my  mortal  form 
In  fashion's  raiment  is  not  fine  arrayed, 

If   but   my   soul   is   clothed   against   the   storm 
Of  prejudice — and  views  hate  unafraid. 

What  does  it  matter  if  the  meed  of  fame 

Does  not  reward  me  for  my  life's  poor  task ; 

If  loving  lips  with  kindness  speak  my  name, 
It  is  enough — no  more  I  would  nor  ask. 

What  does  it  matter  that  if  when  I've  died 

No  creed's  vain  pageantry  bedecks  my  bier ; 

If  e'er  in  life  to  do  the  best  I've  tried, 

To  God  I  leave  the  rest — I  have  no  fear. 


69 


RUGGED   RHYMES 
MY    CIGAR. 

I  watch  the  smoke  from  my  cigar, 
And  think  how  little  riches  are; 
How  small  is  rank — how  empty  fame, 
How  little  worth  is  fortune's  game; 
For  better  far  than  all  of  these, 
Is  rich  contentment  that  doth  please 
The  heart  of  man  as  weary  care 
He  helps  his  stricken  brother  share. 
More  precious  than  the  richest  pearl, 
Are  tender  thoughts  that  come,  when  curl 
The  smoke  wreaths  in  the  ether  far, 
Like  incense  from  my  mild  cigar. 

Soft  rings  of  perfume  float  on  high, 
And  thoughts  of  trouble  pass  me  by. 
At  ease  with  man — all  strife  at  rest — 
I  feel,  within  my  quiet  breast 
Forgiveness  for  all  who  may 
Have  wronged  me — and  I  pray 
For  pardon  for  all  wrongs  I've  wrought; 
And  for  the  pain  I  may  have  brought 
To  other  hearts  unthinkingly; 
I  dream  a  sweet  philosophy, 
Which  no  grim  burdens  ever  mar, 
As  I  watch  the  smoke  from  my  cigar. 

I  have  not  been  false  fortune's  slave, 
And  have  not  managed  wealth  to  save; 
But  fate's  been  kind — I  thank  my  God, 
For  quietly  my  feet  have  trod 
70 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

The  paths  of  peace,  long  after  years 
That  had  their  share  of  griefs  and  tears. 
Up  with  the  smoke  all  cares  now  go, 
And  naught  but  happiness  I  know; 
The  joys  of  happy  home  are  mine, 
And  for  them  fortune  I  resign; 
Love's  bright  light  shines  like  a  star, 
Amid  the  smoke  from  my  cigar. 
*^ 

THE  POETS  AWAKENING. 

A  mystic  thought  crept  through  his  mind, 
Illusive,  vague  and  undefined; 
Like  something  in  a  mirror  glassed, 
Its   semblance   faded  as  it  passed; 
Yet,  ere  it  faded,  on  him  grew, 
A  sense  of  all  that's  fair  and  true, 
In  story,  song  and  legend  old 
Of  sunny  climes  and  ages  gold. 
Some  magic  whisper  then  he  caught. 
Of  tender  nature's  inmost  thought; 
Of  Pan-like  tunings  on  the  pipe, 
And  mellow  fruitage  falling  ripe 
From  those  ancestral  trees  of  song, 
That  to  the  olden  time  belong. 
Then  sweetest  music  filled  his  soul, 
And  held  him  bound  in  soft  control, 
A  subtle  something  through  him  crept, 
And  woke  a  chord  that  erst  had  slept; 
He  woke — from  earthly  bonds  set  free, 
He  woke — to  love  and  poesy. 
71 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

THE  WORLD'S  SONG. 
Unto  their  mates  the  birds  all  sweetly  sing, 
The  breezes  sing  unto  the  waving  trees, 
And  songs  are  sung  to  beach  and  coral  strand, 

By  Arctic  oceans  and  by  tropic  seas; 
The  mother  sings  unto  her  blinking  babe, 

The  maiden  sings  unto  her  lover  true, 
The  poet  sings  unto  the  world  his  lay 

Embracing  all  beneath  the  heavens  blue. 
To  one  grand  song  the  universe  is  tuned, 

The  Master  Hand  has  touched  the  living 

strings, 

No  discord  but  in  man's  dark  sin  and  hate — 
The  one  false  note  in  the  song  that  Nature 
sings. 

^> 

HARVEST  DAYS. 
Soft  clouds  of  fleecy  whiteness  'cross  the  heavens 

leave  their  trail; 
In  the  meadow  cries  the  plover,  in  marsh  reeds 

pipes  the  quail; 
The  cattle  browse  contented  through  the  fields 

of  waving  grass — 
They  scent  the  clover's  perfume  as  refreshing 

breezes  pass. 
The  trees  with  laden  branches  are  all  bending 

to  the  earth, 
To  kiss  the  breast  of  Nature  where  their  bounty 

had  its  birth. 

72 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

The  tasselled  corn  has  ripened  'neath  the  sun's 
bright  golden  rays, 

And  sweeps  of  russet  glory  tell  the  tale  of  har 
vest  days. 

The    birds    sing    sweet   thanksgiving    from    the 

depths  of  leafy  shades, 
And  hymns  of  praise  are  rippling  from  the  brooks 

within  the  glades; 
Man's  prayers  are  high  ascending  to  the  throne 

of  Good  and  Grace, 
As  he  views  the  boundless  beauties  now  spread 

o'er  Nature's  face. 
The  morns  are  full  of  rapture — the  evenings  cool 

and  still — 
A  thrilling  gush  of  music  comes  from  woodland 

and  from  hill; 
The   twilight   fills   the   valleys   with   a   softened 

mellowed  haze, 
The    joy    of   life   teems    through    the   heart    in 

hallowed  harvest  days. 

The  crops  have  all  been  gathered  and  the  hay  is 

drying  fast, 
Earth's  face  is  sweetly  smiling — Summer's  heat 

and  drouth  are  past ; 
The  seeds  sown  in  the  Springtime  by  the  farmer's 

careful  hand, 
Have  ripened  to  nutrition  that  shall  nourish  all 

the  land ; 

73 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

We  may  take  a  striking  lesson  from  Nature's 

ample  plan, 

In  the  good  she  exercises  for  benefit  of  man; 
We  should  sow  the  seeds  of  goodness  in  life's 

divergent  ways, 
And  reap  a  crop  of  comfort  in  our  easy  harvest 

days. 


SHADOWS  ON  THE  WALL. 

After  tea  all  the  children  come 

Clustering  'round  my  knee; 
To  play  some  game  they  all  do  beg 

Persistently  of  me. 
Then  there's  a  caper  that  I  cut 

Which  greatly  pleases  all — 
'Tis  when  I  try  to  quaintly  throw 

Grim  shadows  on  the  wall. 


Indian  heads  and  pussy  cats, 

And  birds  that  do  not  sing; 
Butterflies  big,  rabbits  small, 

And  eagles  dark  of  wings; 
Little  ponies  and  goats  that  butt, 

And  roosters  straight  and  tall — 
A  menagerie  starts  up  when  I 

Throw  shadows  on  the  wall. 
74 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Dogs  minus  tails,  and  donkeys,  too, 

Elephants  small  but  weird; 
Quaint  swans  and  geese,  sheep  with  no  legs, 

And  a  man  with  a  bushy  beard. 
Then  little  baby  laughs  in  glee, 

And  jumps  to  catch  them  all, 
But  they  evade  his  tiny  clutch, 

These  shadows  on  the  wall. 


Thus  we  children  of  larger  growth 

Clutch  at  power,  wealth  and  fame, 
And  seek  to  gain  the  prizes  in 

Life's  ever  fickle  game; 
The  fleeting  shades  of  our  desires 

In  varied  phases  fall, 
Intangible  and  vague — they  prove 

But  shadows  on  the  wall. 


Oh,  baby  dear,  I  hope  that  when 

You  grow  to  man's  estate, 
That  fortune  will  be  kind  to  you 

And  bright  will  be  your  fate; 
That  your  aspirations,  aims  and  dreams 

And  hopes,  both  great  and  small, 
May  not  elude  your  clasp  as  did 

The  shadows  on  the  wall. 
75 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

THE  DEAD  DAY. 
In  the  west  the  day  is  fading, 

And  the  glint  of  sunbeams  fine, 
With  a  quaint,  fantastic  shading, 

Paints  each  tree  and  bush  and  vine. 

In  the  dell  the  darkness  thickens 

And  the  birds  are  hushed  and  still, 

While  the  cricket's  chirrup  quickens 
Lazy  memory  with  a  thrill. 

Now  fades  the  iridescent  glory 
Of  the  purple,  blue  and  red, 

And  deep  silence  tells  the  story 
That  the  day  at  last  is  dead. 

Serene  and  still  the  day's  departed, 

In  the  quietness  of  peace, 
Now  the  weak  and  weary-hearted, 

From  their  troubles  feel  release. 

Now  the  flowers  low  are  bending 

In  the  cool  and  wavering  breeze, 

While  the  evening  wind  is  sending 

Mystic  murmurs  through  the  trees. 

In  the  sun  the  lake  no  longer 
Sparkles  with  a  fitful  gleam, 

Amid  these  scenes  my  heart  grows  stronger, 
And  my  soul  begins  to  dream. 
76 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

Here  let  me  sit  while  twilight's  folded 
In  the  restful  arms  of  night; 

Here  let  the  rising  thoughts  be  molded 
That  shall  sing  of  truth  and  right. 

As  this  Summer  day  has  ended 

In  a  haze  of  ruddy  gold, 
So,  when  my  weary  way  is  wended 

And  my  heart  is  growing  cold. 

Let  me  fade  as  each  bright  ray  does; 

Let  my  soul  with  the  light  depart; 
Let  me  die  as  each  fair  day  does, 

In  the  twilight  of  the  heart. 

-v> 

THE  CLOCK. 

Oh !  warning  monitor  of  passing  hours, 

Who  heeds  the  message  there  upon  thy  face ! 

Where  rushing  minutes  e'er  their  passage 

trace 

To  oblivion's  abysm,  where  flowers 
That  bloomed  within  our  youth's  bright  verdant 
bowers 

Are  faded  into  nothingness.    Where  grace 

Of  life  and  love  and  fame  are  as  the  chase 
Of  lightning  flashes  in  the  cloud  that  lowers. 
Thy  hands  move  on  relentlessly  and  point 

To  one  Dark  Day  the  future  holds  for  me; 
Which  though  my  years  by  holy  and  anoint, 

Holds  yet  its  terror  and  sore  misery ; 
When  Faith  and  Hope  shall  need  in  essence  joint, 

Help  this  poor  soul  to  face  Eternity. 
77 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  ROSE. 
The  legend  runs  that  long  ago, 
The  rose  was  colored  like  the  snow; 
Once  Venus  saw  this  flower  white, 
And  watched  it  grow  in  beauty  dight — 
She  marked  its  bloom  as  it  was  born, 
And  watered  it  on  every  morn : 
As  she  once  passed  a  jealous  thorn 
Pricked  her  white  foot  which  sorely  bled — 
And  on  the  rose  a  drop  fell  red. 
And  o'er  the  petals  quickly  sped : 
As  soon  as  her  sharp  cry  had  hushed 
She  saw  the  rose  in  crimson  flushed : 
And  though  this  happened  in  ancient  days, 
Upon  the  rose  the  red  still  stays. 


SIMILITUDE. 

I  saw  a  bright  star  shining  in  the  sky; 

I  looked  again  and  it  was  lost  among 

The  countless  others;  but  it  was  there  I  know, 

Lending  its  lustre  to  the  brilliant  sky. 


I  knew  a  good  man  in  this  world  of  ours. 
And  though  unknown,  unseen  amid  the  throng, 
He  made  lives  happy,  and  did  all  men  good, 
And  shed  the  grace  of  charity  around. 
78 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  SOUL. 
My  soul  and  I  together  sat  alone 

At  midnight's  hour  so  still  and  chilly  dark, 
And  I  said  unto  my  soul,  "When  thy  spark 
Forsakes  this  weakened  frame,  its  earthly  throne, 
And   starts   its   voyage   through   the   great   un 
known, 

Leaving  this  body  pale  and  cold  and  stark, 
For  sorrowing  children,   wife  and   friends 

to  mark 

With  eyes  grief-laden  and  with  troubled  moan, 
Shall  I  yet  know  of  those  I  held  most  dear, 
As  past  great  worlds  my  soaring  spirit  flies? 
Shall  I  be  able  to  dispel  their  fear, 

From  Shadow-land  beyond  the  distant  skies, 
Can  I  yet  aid  them  as  they  through  darkness 

grope  ? 
My  soul  but  one  word  whispered :  it  was  "Hope." 

«^y 

IF  WE  KNEW. 

In  the  morn  of  our  years  could  we  waken, 
To  the  pitiless,  sad  sequence  of  life, 

How  the  hearts  in  our  breasts  would  be  shaken 
At  the  dread  premonition  of  strife. 

But  it  seems  as  if  fate  in  its  kindness, 

Had  withheld  the  dark  knowledge  of  fears; 

So  in  the  measureless  depths  of  our  blindness 
We  stand  undaunted  in  face  of  the  years. 
79 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

AT  TWILIGHT. 
A  long  thin  strip  of  crimson  in  the  west; 

Far-lying  clouds,  rose-tinted,  hugely  quaint, 

With  ruddy  softness  that  no  brush  can  paint, 
Outlining  the  whiteness  of  their  snowy  crest. 
Returning  birds,  home-winging  to  their  nest, 

Outvoicing  all  their  nature's  unrestraint; 

Odors  that  on  the  ether  seem  to  faint 
Like  love-lorn  roses  on  a  maiden's  breast. 

The   creeping   dusk   with    dawning   moonbeams 

rent, 
Fills  all  the  world  with  soft  and  hallowed 

peace  ; 
And  faintly  far,  with  salt  sea  breezes  blent, 

The  sailor's  song  tells  of  his  toil's  release: 
The  waves  break  on  the  shores  with  force  well- 

spent, 

And  sound  the  dirge-note  of  the  day's  de 
cease. 


HOPE. 

Like  the  pure  breath  of  new-born  spring,  sweet 

hope 

Refreshes  all  the  soul,  and  in  the  heart 
Implants  the  strong  resolves  that  lead  us  on 
To  greater  and  more  lofty  purposes. 
80 


RUGGED   RHYMES 
LOVE. 

Love  lingers  longest  in  the  saddest  heart, 

As  soft  reproach  unto  its  bitter  grief; 

With  purest  touch  it  brings  a  sweet  relief, 
And  takes  the  sting  from  keen  misfortune's  dart, 
Soothing  with  its  grace  the  saddening  smart 

That  rankles  sore  when  all  the  soul's  belief 

Is  swept  away,  and  hope  itself  is  brief; 
When  new-born  bliss  and  old-time  joys  depart. 

Love   the    sweet    fragrance   of   a   maiden's 
dream, 

With     languid     odor     wraps     her     inmost 

thought ; 
And  lustres  life  with  ethereal  beam, 

From  some  bright  spiritual  essence  caught. 
With  quiet  tyranny  it  rules  the  soul, 
And  o'er  the  heartstrings  holds  supreme  control. 

*cy 

BEAUTY. 

The  phantom  shape  that  haunts  the  poet's  dreams, 
And   lure^   him   wide   of   men   on   moonlit 

nights, 

Easing  all  his  soul  with  murmurs  of  delights 
In  leafy  shades  by  joyous  sylvan  streams. 

The  splendor  hiding  in  the  sunset's  gleams, 

So  grand  that  the  impassioned  painter  sights 
The  unguessed  glories  of  Elysian  heights, 

More  lustrous  yet  than  e'en  his  vision  deems. 
Si 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

The  subtle  essence  of  a  maiden's  thought, 

What  time  that  spring  still  blossoms  in  the 
heart ; 

The  joys  of  nature  that  the  senses  feel, 

When  with  pure  purposes  our  life  is  fraught. 

The  great  resolves  that  in  brave  bosoms  start, 
When  hope  fades  sadly  with  the  lost  ideal. 


WOMEN. 

The  tragedy  of  life  is  theirs, 

Its  many  trials  and  its  cares. 
The  childish  griefs — the  youthful  woes 

The  tender  soul  of  woman  knows; 
Their  own  keen  suffering — others'  smarts 

They  carry  in  their  aching  hearts; 
Man's  weary  burden  woman  shares, 

Ah,  yes,  the  tragedy  of  life  is  theirs. 


Nature's  recompense  is  theirs 

For  all  the  trouble  each  one  bears. 
The  lisping  "Mother"  in  childish  tones, 

This  the  bliss  that  woman  owns. 
Man's  strong  love  and  childrens'  too, 

The  heartsease  twined  among  the  rue, 
The  peace  of  God  as  relief  from  cares, 

And  so,  the  joy  of  life  is  theirs. 
82 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

THE  BIRTH  OF  SONG. 

A  shepherd  boy  out  in  the  hills  at  night; 

The  bright  stars  twinkling  in  the  summer  sky; 

The  hum  of  insects  and  the  fragrant  air; 

Lull  care  to  rest,  and  thought  dawns  in  the  mind. 

A  reed  is  rudely  fashioned,  and  on  the  night 

There  float  the  witching  notes  that  tell  the  world 

That  song  is  born. 


ON  THE  CORNER. 

Alone  and  silently  I  stand 

On  the  corner, 

And  watch  the  ever  varying  band 
Go  by  with  swiftly  hurrying  feet; 
The  miser  old,  the  maiden  sweet, 
Men  who  for  wealth  or  fame  complete, 
I  see  them  all  from  my  retreat 

On  the  corner. 

The   scarlet  woman — the   fair  pure  girl, 
Side  by  side  in  the  city's  whirl; 
The  noble — mean — the  rich — the  poor — 
The  great — the  myriad  obscure — 
The  little  ones,  whose  childish  talk 
I  bless,  as  merrily  they  walk 
Past  the  corner. 
83 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

The  wealthy  merchant,  his  humble  clerks, 
The  lowly  tramp  who  ever  shirks 
The  daily  tasks  that  others  do; 
The  dreaming  poet  who  doth  pursue 
E'en  within  the  city's  strife, 
The  visions  that  enlarge  his  life. 
Some  faces  radiant  with  glee, 
Some  faces  tinged  with  woe  I  see 
Pass  the  corner. 

How  many  men  now  hurrying  by 
Will  never  see  to-morrow's  sky; 
How  many  hearts  now  beating  fast 
Shall  ere  the  morrow  beat  their  last; 
How  many  feet  will  ne'er  go  past 
Again — that  corner? 

Here  comes  a  bright  and  happy  youth, 
With   face  illumed  by  beaming  truth, 
With  heart  so  full  of  golden  dreams 
And  life  of  promise — it  scarcely  seems 
That  life  could  end — yet  he 
Will  never  again  pass  me, 

On  the  corner. 

So  it  is  I  take  my  stand 

On  the  corner, 

And  watch  this  mortal  struggling  band 
Hurry  on  with  bated  breath, 
Some  to  hope  and  some  to  death. 
84 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

And  in  this  simple  task  I  find 
Meet  occupation  for  the  mind; 
A  deep  and  wise  philosophy 
Is  daily  opened  unto  me, 

On  the  corner. 


THE  NEW  AND  OLD. 
Who  is  it  joins  a  suffrage  club, 
And  clatters  round  with  great  hubbub? 
Who  prates  upon  the  marriage  state, 
And  dwells  on  mighty  problems  great? 
Who  talks  of  Huxley,  Spencer,  Kant, 
And  teaches  sister,   cousin,  aunt, 
The  reason  why  that  they  should  vote, 
And  many  learned  books  can  quote? 
Who  lectures,  reasons,  argues,  fights, 
For  her  own  and  all  her  sister's  rights? 
Who  writes  in  French  and  thinks  in  Greek. 
And  several  languages  can  speak? 
Who  advocates  the  Malthus  plan 
For  the  non-continuance  of  man; 
Who  baits  her  husband  till  he  swears, 
Nor  mends  the  clothing  that  he  tears? 
Why  the  smart  New  Woman ! 

Who  starts  the  early  morning  fire, 
And  gets  the  coffee  we  desire; 
Who  fries  our  eggs  and  broils  our  steak, 
And  gingham  wears  just  for  love's  sake; 
85 


RUGGED  RHYMES 

Who  sews  our  shirts  and  mends  our  clothes, 
And  darns  the  rents  within  our  hose; 
Who  bakes  us  bread  and  makes  us  pies, 
Who  warms  our  slippers,  buys  our  ties, 
Who  makes  us  fathers  and  who  shares 
Our  lot  of  trials,  troubles,  cares? 
Who  only  speaks  her  mother  tongue, 
But  sings  the  sweetest  songs  e'er  sung; 
Who  nurses  us  when  we  are  ill, 
Then  helps  us  pay  the  doctor's  bill? 
Who  is  our  best  and  greatest  joy, 
Who  calls  us  still  her  "good  old  boy?" 
Why  the  dear  Old  Woman. 

*£y 

BETTER. 
Better  to  die  in  the  sweet  fruition, 

Of  competence,  peace  and  loyal  love, 
Than  to  live  to  see  the  parturition 

Of  unending  hate  and  the  grief  thereof. 

Better  to  die  with  the  heartfelt  yearning 

For  the  golden  promise  of  hope  and  truth, 

Than  feel  the  heart  in  the  breast  cold-turning, 
And  to  watch  the  death  of  the  dreams  of 
youth. 

Better  to  die  in  the  full  assurance 

Of  some  slight  degree  of  eternal  fame, 

Than  to  live  a  life  of  long  endurance, 

Outlasting  hope — surviving  a  great  name. 
86 


RUGGED   RHYMES 


GONE  BEFORE. 

Long  years  we  loved  and  love  still  seemed  no  less, 
But  stronger,  firmer  grew  with  each  new 

day. 

Some  sunshine  ever  in  our  pathway  lay, 
And  there  were  days  of  keen  and  deep  distress, 
When  we  knew  care,  and  felt  misfortunes  press — 
Dark  days,  scarce  lighted  by  a  single  ray. 
But  that  our  love  grew  colder  none  could 

say, 
Or  that  we  e'er  forgot  the  old-time  sweet  caress. 

And  when  she  faded  as  a  flower  fades 
That  lives  a  summer  and  then  droops  and  dies, 
When  her  bright  spirit  joined  those  angel 

shades 
That  throng  the  mystic  regions  of  the  skies, 

My  heart  was  solaced  that  on  heaven's  fair 

sea, 
Beyond  the  grave,  love  floats  eternally. 


RUGGED   RHYMES 


IF  YOU  WERE  NEAR. 
If  I  were  dying,  love,  and  you  were  near, 

Death  then  would  lose  half  of  his  terrors 
grim; 

Yea,  methinks,  I  could  almost  joke  with  him, 
And  greet  him  with  a  smile  unknown  to  fear; 
If  by  my  side  there  stood  thy  presence  dear; 

Nor  at  yawning  hell's  dread  chasm  would  I 
tarry, 

Nor  hesitate  to  let  old  Charon  carry 
Me  across  that  dark  lake.     If  you  were  near 

The  desert  of  misfortune  I  could  traverse, 
Could  meet  dull  care  and  sorrows  in  the  face, 

And  battle  with  despair  and  what  is  worse 
The  sadness  and  the  stigma  of  disgrace; 

The  bitterness  of  malice  and  hate's  leer 

I  could  endure — if  you  were  only  near. 


88 


RUGGED   RHYMES 
ENVY. 

Men  cavil  that  the  meed  of  praise  I've  won, 
Nor  pause  to  ask  if  I  have  won  it  fair; 

If  for  some  thought  or  word  or  action  done, 
I  may  some  tribute,  as  a  laurel  wear. 

I  e'er  I've  wrought  to  help  my  fellow  man, 

Or  said  or  wrote  some  words  to  ease  his 
stress, 

Why  should  malevolent  envy's  ban, 

Be  laid  on  me  in  such  unkindliness. 

I  can  but  say  in  mine  own  weak  defence, 

I  have  but  followed  my  own  beacon  true; 

I  seek  not  fame  or  fortune's  recompence 

But  walk  the  paths  inclination  leads  me  to. 

This  my  nature — and  if  some  help  I  give, 
To  those  less  fortunate  or  gifted  less, 

Why  in  my  soul,  I'm  happy  that  I  live, 

And  consign  dark  Envy  to  forgetfulness. 

As  for  my  talents,  I  designed  them  not, 
— Unto  the  envious  I  make  this  plea — 

My  will  or  wish  increased  not  one  a  jot, 

They  are   God's   work — though  they   were 
born  in  me. 

So  Envy's  sneering,  dull  malicious  glance, 

That  seeks  to  find  my  feet  within  the  sod, 

Is  not  to  me  a  penetrating  lance, 

But  insult  to  our  common,  gracious  God. 
89 


RUGGED   RHYMES 

WHEN  BABY  SLEEPS. 

When  baby  sleeps, 
Silence  reigns  thro'  all  th'  house; 
I  go  around  jes'  like  a  mouse, 
Er  walk  about  jes'  like  a  cat, 
An'  try  to  do  this  thing  an'  that, 
But  somehow  my  soft  an'  hushened  tread 
Will  always  lead  me  t'  th'  bed, 
Where  baby  sleeps. 

When  baby  sleeps 
Th'  hull  place  is  very  quiet, 
An'  mebbe  that's  th'  reason  why  it 
Seems  like  my  baby's  here  no  more, 
But's  left  us  fer  th'  golden  shore, 
Where  she  first  kem  from  in  th'  skies; 
Then  th'  big  tear  drops  fill  my  eyes, 

When  baby  sleeps. 

When  baby  sleeps 
I  watch  and  watch  her  while  I  sit, 
An'  wait  fer  her  t'  stir  a  bit; 
An'  then  I  take  her  in  my  arms, 
T'  kinder  keep  away  all  harms; 
But  I  can't  cos  there'll  be 
Troubles  in  life  she  can't  well  flee, 
An'   dangers  everywhere  aboun' 
So,  please  God,  jes'  have  an  eye  aroun' 

When  baby  sleeps. 
90 


RUGGED   RHYMES 


AS  TWILIGHT  FALLS. 
The  night  wind  murmurs  thro  the  trees, 
The  grass  waves  gently  in  the  breeze. 
The  birds'  sweet  song  is  hushed  and  still, 
And  softer  flows  the  ripplying  rill, 
As  twilight  falls. 

Faint  shadows  o'er  the  river  glide, 
The  insect  hum  fills  meadows  wide; 
The  tired  swains  all  homeward  hie, 
When  softened  glory  floods  the  sky, 
As  twilight  falls. 

When  on  the  earth  night's  hand  is  laid 
The  cares  of  life  grow  dim  and  fade. 
The  stormy  paths  that  men  have  trod 
Are  quiet  with  the  peace  of  God, 
As  twilight  falls. 


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